


They'll never guess what's underneath

by jessiestark



Category: American Psycho - All Media Types, American Psycho - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:44:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1512680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessiestark/pseuds/jessiestark





	They'll never guess what's underneath

Breathing heavily, with the phone pressed tight against his chest, desperation and fear took over the man as the seconds passed and the lights coming from the helicopters went in and out of the room through the windows at 358 Exchange Place New York, Wall Street, Pierce and Pierce. Patrick Bateman had already called Howard, his lawyer, and confessed everything-- the murders of all those insignificant people, his old girlfriend Bethany, all the other women, like Christie and that model he still couldn’t remember her fucking name and even told him about the tapes. Most importantly, Patrick told it was him who killed Paul Allen-- and that he liked it.

But this was it then? The end of Patrick Bateman, the wealthy business man from Wall Street? No, it couldn't be. He had stuff to do, like pick up some suits at the laundry and return some videotapes. He had a routine to follow, why wouldn't he get away this time?

Of course, it was the logical solution. The police was after him, and it was just a matter of time for them to follow the trace of dead people he had left at his run. He had killed a lot of people today, but that thought didn’t actually make him feel bad. All covered in sweat and tears, after running his fingers through his hair (which was a complete mess), he let himself relax for a moment, and a hysterical laugh followed the lead. His right hand still held the phone speaker as he leaned against his office desk, sitting in the floor with his Valentino's suit, Armani tie and shoes by Ferragamo. There was someone else he wanted to call, someone-- not to say most likely the only one; who'd at least listen to him that time of the night.

          "Anna! Good, hi. I need to talk to you. I'd ask you to come in person, but I don't see how that can happen." Patrick quickly bursted out as the call was answered. "So, listen."

          " _Patrick?_ " A female voice answered. " _Patrick-- Patrick, calm down. Where are you?_ "

          "At my office, but the police is all around the building by now, you'll never get here."

           " _Oh darling, you think those idiots can resist a pretty girl? They can’t. Give me a sec, I'll be right where you are._ "

           "Ann-- _Fuck_."  Patrick hung up with a sigh. He knew he was tense, and he knew it wasn't good for with smooth skin. Too much stress would make his hair fall eventually, and no lotion would be able to retard the process. But he also knew there was no way she'd be able to pass through the policemen, even though she'd already proven to be pretty much smart for being so beautiful. An unique woman-- maybe the only reason he hadn't killed her yet. Plus, she was much dirtier in bed than Courtney, or even Christie, or any other insignificant prostitute he'd killed. Or Evelyn, and God knows why she got in this list now.

But he waited. After all, he wasn't going anywhere soon anyway. Time passed, five minutes, ten, twenty. He was about to fall asleep when some muffed knocks of high heels against the floor woke him up, putting a frown of disbelief at his face. The door opened slowly, and a white woman wearing a black Krizia dress with a light brown cashmere coat by Norma Kamali, D'Orsay red high heels, and a red blood lipstick appeared, staring at him with her big blue penetrating eyes while evaluating the situation. No emotion could be read from them, neither from her expression. Anna stood there, completely blunt for a few seconds until walking toward the sofa at the opposite wall and crossing her legs in a provocative way.

        "So what happened here, Bateman? Hope I'm not wasting my time." She sighed. "Although-- I'm sure I am. I know everything that goes on at this sick head of yours."

Patrick didn't bother with how did she get there. His mask was falling down, about to slip, and the claws of insanity were around his neck. He could feel its breath against his face, a cold breeze laughing at him. All the way to insanity was like walking a tightrope-- falling down would take nothing but a single tiny push.  He needed to put it out, and do it again before another laughter attack takes over. A part of him was enjoying all this, all the acceptance. Telling someone was making this psychopathic part of him better on his eyes.

      "Anna, I..." His mouth hung opened for a while, opening and closing for a few seconds as no sound came out. Dragging himself toward her and forgetting for a moment that he was ruining a Valentino suit, he stopped at the other extreme of the table, making sure the lights weren't getting him. "I- I--" And here comes the laughter. " _I just killed a lot of people, Anna_! I killed stupid people and fucking bastards who didn't have anything to do with me!"

Patrick stared at her, and waited until the laughter to pass. But there was something else awaiting. Tears, although not tears of sadness, neither joy. It was almost like the way his body found to relieve the stress inside him. And Anna stood where she was, no reaction, simply watching his scene.

        "I know." She answered vaguely. "And I saw the mess you'd done today. What was that, Patrick? Why today? 'Feed me a stray cat'. You fell into that? Really? Where is the cautious side of Mr. Bateman, huh? For the man who killed Paul Allen and is dealing with it so well, what happened?"

         A frown formed at his face as he let go the phone and looked at Anna properly. "How do you know all these details? I didn't tell you I killed Allen."

         “Noope.”

         “Collins, don’t fucking start. I’m not in the mood for your games today.” He put the phone away, taking a deep breath. “I could kill you right now with my bare hands around your soft neck and then fuck your dead body.” Patrick stood up, the helicopter sound was far away now.

         A mockery laugh drew its way through her lips as she crossed her legs again. “But I know you won’t do it, darling.”

Bateman didn’t answer. He only stared at the woman in silence, his expression as blunt as hers. Anna Collins has been always a sort of mystery to him. Not that he would be interested by people’s life; no, they were always the same and extremely boring. But it wasn’t her life that intrigued him, it was the woman herself.

Since the first time they met, she had been different from other woman. Of course the fact that she was consummately beautiful brought the conclusion that a stupid brain would be what was inside her head. But Anna proved the opposite. Such cunning comments, with a spot of arrogancy and a charming smile that caught him completely unprepared showed that she was a single piece at this great game the world is. Collins had proven to understand him, and even show that he wasn’t alone in some of his beliefs. The world simply had too many people. So... why would someone be evil by killing some useless ones?

But then, everytime he called her out with her friends, she’d never showed up. There was a huge quantity of people who worked at Pierce and Pierce and none of them remembered her. Not even Jean-- which he read by her expression got pretty disappointed in the day Anna went to visit him - he never forgot that his secretary was in love with him and that she was the most probable option he would end up marrying until a few weeks ago -, Jean didn’t remember about the visit.

So who was she? She said she knew everything about him, but it wasn’t possible. No one knew not even a half of his life-- sometimes, not even himself. But his line of thinking was interrupted by the low laugh coming from the woman sitting in the couch, which legs were constantly attracting his look and making him fight off against the urge to fuck her right here, right now.

         “Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. You are such a darling. The true 'boy next door', as Evelyn dear would say.” Anna got up, taking off her overcoat and throwing it at him, who grabbed with no difficulty, a perfect reflection to her move. “All the wondering about who I am, haven’t you find it out already? Pleease.” She intoned the last word stepping toward him, her nails teasingly stroking his face when Bateman’s hand got her arm in a tight grip, his eyes locked at hers with a defiant look.

         She sustained the look and smiled. “I honestly thought you were smarter. Just. Think.”

And with the tick of a second on the clock hung in the wall, the cashmere coat was sprawled at the carpet, and his arms were around her while Patrick put himself behind Anna, his mouth whispering at her ear. “Oh, I’m thinking. I’m thinking on what products should I use to remove your blood from my carpet. By the way-- do you know Phil Collins?”

         “I’m sure the ones you have in your house will do. And yes, I do. Althought I think he was much better within a group then in his solo career; his efforts in the last one seems to be more comercial but yet a little bit satisfying in a narrower way.” She replied.  “You think you can threaten me, Patrick, but the truth is- I know you are not killing me. You had so much opportunities to do it before. Of course, there is excuse that I’m just another one counting the ones you killed today, but I’m still sure you won’t do it.-

        -The world, Bateman, is a game with no winners; a game which is played with nothing but words. How do you I know about you, you wonder. But ask yourself-- am I speaking the truth? It can be the truth, it can be a bluff, maybe that’s the reason I’m very good at playing poker. You are always so sure of the world around you, Patrick Bateman.

         Are you _sure_ about my words?”

The last question came out as a whisper as the grip around Anna Collins got loosen, and then he was walking around the room, rubbing his neck as the man put himself in hard thought. He wasn’t sure on what to do, he wasn’t sure on what to say or even believe right now.

         “The world- “ She went on, walking toward the windows as her gaze travelled through the sight of the asleep city above them. “is an illusion, Patrick. There is no winning or losing. No real feelings. It’s a machine that sustain itself by the pain it causes to people. We’re nothing to it. You-- You’re not a God, not a demon, nor a salvator or a monster. You’re just a sick guy with a hobby, claiming the lives of the insignificant. Homeless people, sluts, assholes. All the same. Sooner or later, they’re all gone and no one gives a rat's ass about them. That’s ‘life’.-

         -The world is made of players, like you and I. We’re playing, calculating and using everyone around in order to survive. The natural selection, the natural course of life. Only the best can survive, and they make their way walking over the dead bodies of the weaks.

         -I don’t judge you, neither mention your sanity. We’re the same, I guess. You and me, Patrick. All players of this fucking game of our fucking lives. No one can ever win, so… who’s the best? The one who takes longer to get insane? Everybody has multiple masks, but there is just one thing beside all of them. _Insanity_. You can run away or hide, but you’re never spared.”

High heeled steps lead the woman to where Bateman was standing, staring at her. Her lips touched him briefly and she nibbled his bottom lip while her hand found the shooting gun at his pocket. The woman quickly stepped back, her bright blue eyes shining with madness.

         “You want to know who I am.” She giggled softly pronouncing her last words before pulling the trigger.

                  “I’m you, Patrick.

                                     ** _I am Patrick Bateman.”_**

****

 


End file.
